Off-White Christmas
by ayafangirl
Summary: Murdoc reflects on his childhood and why he really doesn't like the holidays. 2D does his best to comfort him. TW for mentions of child abuse.


Woo, more 2doc! I don't know why this is the second Christmas-themed fic I've written this summer, but don't worry about that!

This is a little darker than some other things I've written, so trigger warning for mentions of domestic/child abuse as well as alcoholism. If that's not for you, I'll be writing more stuff soon so no worries! I wanted to explore my ideas about what Murdoc's childhood was like.

As ever, if you have any questions, comments, complaints, concerns, feel free to shoot me a message or review!

Off-White Christmas

It had been snowing sluggishly outside. Just a dusting of snow coated the ground with a semblance of white. You could still see dirt and dead grass underneath, but the scenic dreams of a White Christmas were at least not entirely forgotten this year.

While Sebastian and whatever drug-addicted hookers he brought home with him usually didn't show face before noon, Murdoc was surprised to wake to the sound of someone clattering pots and pans in the kitchen a little before ten.

He rose and rushed to the cramped sitting room to behold their very first Christmas tree. His father had never bothered with them before, complaining that decorating for Christmas was a waste of time and money, things they could ill afford to be careless with. So to Hannibal and Murdoc's disappointment, Christmas had been bypassed for as long as they had known of its existence. Presents were absolutely out of the question, and when Murdoc had heckled, annoyed to hear all of his classmates talking about what they'd asked their mums and dads for, Sebastian had promised him a firm kick in the teeth if he kept asking.

Things changed with Bessie.

Bessie was Sebastian's current girlfriend, and had stuck around for about three weeks now, which was a record. When she had heard that the Niccals family never acknowledged Christmas, she had cried out that it was positively cruel to deny the children (Hannibal was hardly a child anymore, Sebastian had muttered) such a wonderful holiday. So she had sped out to the nearest used-goods shop and bought a small, scraggely tree, which sat, sullen and geriatric, atop the coffee table.

Now Murdoc gently touched the balding tinsel. To the six-year-old, it hardly mattered that the tree didn't look like the ceiling-high pines he beheld on the Nutcracker specials they ran on television every December. This was his family's and therefore the best tree in all of Stoke-On-Trent.

In the kitchen, Bessie was attempting to assemble the equipment to make a proper Christmas breakfast—some eggs on toast would suffice really—but she had never bothered trying to cook in Sebastian's home before, and couldn't find anything that resembled a frying pan. Or a spatula. She had at least managed to put the kettle on and brew herself a good strong cup of tea, and she sipped from it deeply, humming carols out of key as she continued her search, hoping to surprise her green-skinned boyfriend.

Bessie was from a rough patch of town. Tall and lanky with saggy breasts and brownish teeth, she was hardly considered a looker. But then, she was able to stomach shagging Sebastian Jacob Niccals, so he took what he could get without complaining. The two had found each other and stayed together due to a shared pastime of drinking themselves to excess, and Bessie felt confident that by dating a man who was strictly alcoholic, she could move past her addiction to speed. Their mutual messiness made it hard to function sometimes, but Sebastian's younger son Murdoc was quite smitten with her, and she had begun to fancy herself a mother figure in her short time living in their hovel of a home.

As she plugged the toaster into an outlet, a small pair of hands slapped onto the counter beside her. She turned and looked down to see Murdoc hoisting himself up, propping his chin on the countertop and staring at her curiously.

"Mornin', love! Merry Christmas," she chirped. He smiled in reply. "I was just looking to fix us something for brekkie; doesn't look like you have much though," she sighed, sipping her tea again and frowning at the lack of taste. Her mud-colored eyes flickered over to one cabinet she knew intimately, and she reached over and pulled out a bottle of vodka. "Well, don't tell anyone, okay? It's Christmas!"

She poured a generous glug into her mug.

Murdoc blinked at her; he knew that every day that wasn't Christmas, there was another form of excuse as to why alcohol made it into her morning tea, but he had been taught better than to question it.

"Too bad we don't have much in the way of eggs or flour for baking," Bessie mused. Her face lit up. "But!"

Murdoc dropped back down onto the floor, unable to support himself by his arms anymore.

"I could make you cinnamon and sugar toast. How's that sound?"

The child shrugged. "Sugar on toast? Sounds fucked up."

He had begun using that description on most everything these days, as it seemed to be a popular expression amongst Hannibal and his cronies. Murdoc had long since ascertained that life was a matter of act tough or be crushed, and it had made him frighteningly precocious for someone so small. However, the boy's language had no effect on someone as rough-and-tumble as Bessie, and she snorted.

"It ain't fucked up; it's good. Here, I'll make it for you. Hungry?"

He was never one to turn down food, and hunger was as omnipresent as booze in his home. He nodded, watching with a feigned air of disinterest as she buttered up a crust of toast and proceeded to sprinkle an ample amount of sugar over it, then added cinnamon as well. It was like the shy snow outside, especially when the brown and white powders mixed and created a semblance of the dirty-white blanket over the yard.

Taking another long slurp of her spiked morning caffeine, Bessie proudly lowered the plate down for Murdoc to take a piece of toast. "Try it," she urged, red-rimmed eyes kind.

He obeyed, anxiously taking a bite to appease her although he doubted it would be very good. To his surprise, the taste was beyond agreeable. He couldn't remember the last time someone had made a meal for him quite so cheerfully, and in spite of all the time he spent training himself to frown and act tough, he broke into a wide grin and nodded his approval.

She smiled back, patting his greasy head. "There's a good lad. Nothing like a little sugar for breakfast!"

Murdoc took another big bite, still smiling, and Bessie took a moment to look, really look at Sebastian's son, trying to concentrate and garner a sense of motherliness. His hair was dirty, messy, like it hadn't been washed in at least a few days. It had also grown long, falling down the nape of his neck almost to his shoulders. His eyes were sunken, a trait that seemed to run in the family, and his teeth, she realized, were overcrowded and snaggly. He may need to see a dentist about it eventually; she should broach the topic with Sebastian whenever he woke up.

"Murdoc, darlin', how do you even see with this heavy mop over your face?" she asked, brushing his bangs up slightly; most of his eyes were obscured, making it difficult to tell his emotions, especially from afar. "We really ought to cut this," she mused to herself, winding her fingers around his thick hair and pushing it straight back out of his face.

Murdoc smiled up at her, a little butter smeared on the side of his mouth, face fully exposed and content. Slowly, his smile faded into a look of mixed guilt and unease as he realized she was looking at him with horror.

"What…is that?" she asked.

He realized, too late, what she had seen.

"Nothing!" his small hand smacked her wrist hard enough to make her draw back quickly, his black fringe falling back down like a heavy curtain. But she had seen enough.

She had seen the scars littering his forehead, the clear indication that cigarettes had been pressed against his head.

"Oh my god…" she stumbled back, knocking her coffee cup off the counter. The sound of shattering glass made both of them jump, but neither of them broke eye contact. Coffee and vodka oozed between the glass shards on the floor, the strong smell swirling around them as Murdoc backed away from her.

"Did your father do that to you?" she demanded, and he shook his head, but he knew it was too late. "What kind of sick fuck burns a little boy?!"

Poorly timed as always, Sebastian entered the room at that moment, ponytail messy and eyes still bleary from sleep and hangover. A long thin cigarette hung from his lips.

"D'djou break a glass already, Bess? 't's'too early for this shit."

He recognized instantly that things were not okay when she shot him an angry look and Murdoc curled in on himself like origami.

"You," she snarled, pointing at him. "You beast! You fucking sick son of a bitch, how could you hurt him he's just a little baby—"

"The hell're you on about?"

"Murdoc's face. How long have you been burning him? What, you use your son as an ashtray?"

Sebastian's head snapped in the direction of his son. "What've you been telling her, you little snitch?" he snarled, contempt dripping from his features.

"Nothing!"

"I brushed his hair back and _saw_ _for myself_ , Sebastian. You do that to Hannibal as well?!" Bessie was crossing the room suddenly, her bare feet trailing a bit of coffee with her. Murdoc's eyes fixed themselves on a single wet footprint rather than the screaming adults above him.

"Oh, back off," Sebastian had transitioned from sleepy to murderous in seconds, and was in Bessie's face in a heartbeat, fists clenched in silent promise. "He's fine! Don't tell me how to raise my kids just 'cuz you've flushed all of yours!"

Bessie shoved him back, hard. Her footprint was beginning to evaporate off the floor, Murdoc noted.

"How dare you! I knew you threatened Murdoc, but I thought it was all talk! How the fuck do you hit a child, Sebastian? You're sick in the head!"

"You've got a lot of nerve yelling at me like that in my own house, you bitch."

"You're right. I don't think I belong here. I thought you were different."

With that, she stormed past Sebastian and into their shared bedroom.

"Oi! The fuck're ya doin'?"

"I'm leaving!" she replied, and the sound of clothes being shoved hastily into a bag attested the fact.

For the first time since the screaming match had begun, Sebastian looked concerned. His dark brows furrowed together in a most un-Niccals frown. "What?"

Murdoc stared down at his half-eaten breakfast, suddenly feeling sick. He didn't look up to watch his father stride out of the room. He didn't look up to watch the shadows of their figures play on the walls as he tried to wretch her possessions from her hands. He didn't look up to watch her shove him again, or to see him slap her back (he heard that though).

The yelling and cursing that followed was nothing new to him. And eventually, when Bessie made her way out of the bedroom, still in her slippers and her robe, for just a moment, she looked just like all the other women that had stumbled in and out of Sebastian's life. For a brief second, she glanced in Murdoc's direction and he stupidly, _stupidly_ looked up and met her gaze.

Her muddy eyes flickered with a trace of guilt, regret, sadness that she had failed him. It pierced the child's chest like a harpoon, and he winced, flinching away from her.

Bessie turned from him with a sound like a sob or a snarl, and kicked open the front door.

"—and anyway what'll you do without me, huh? You'll be a crackwhore again in a matter of days! I don't need you! I never needed you!"

She pointedly ignored his diatribe as she stomped outside, giving him the two finger salute and a final _fuck you_ before heading off, no doubt to the nearest pub to get herself together.

Sebastian slammed the door after her, shoulders rising and falling with rage. "I never needed you anyway," he muttered to himself.

With the door closed and the cold air no longer streaming into the room, he finally took and breath and turned, his eyes landing on his son.

Murdoc looked up at his father and then bent down to place his plate of toast on the floor with care.

The first blow landed before he had even stood up fully.

.

.

.

A little later, Hannibal entered the house, pushing the door closed behind him and shivering. A leather jacket was hardly appropriate winter attire, but he liked to look cool.

"Shit it's cold out there," he hissed to no one in particular. "Icy rain washed all the snow away; now it's just the ninth circle out there."

He turned and entered the house, seeing that his weather update had not been heard by anyone. The only one who appeared to be home was Murdoc, who lay curled up in a ball on the floor, his back to the door. Hannibal recognized the position well, and instantly understood.

"Guess Santa didn't bring you nothin', huh?" he asked, stepping over his brother's prone body to get further into the house, noting that their Christmas tree had been taken down. He paused, noticing a plate of half-eaten food on the floor beside Murdoc.

"Thanks, faceache. Merry Christmas."

He plucked the plate up and took a bite of toast, continuing into his room, leaving Murdoc alone, staring into space.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Kong Studios is alight with Christmas lights of every shape and color, and the smell of hot chocolate fills the living room. Noodle lies in a pile of shredded wrapping paper, several ornamental bows stuck in her frizzy hair. With smears of chocolate all over her mouth and new stuffed animals held tight in each arm, she is the embodiment of a happy child on Christmas morning. Russel and 2D look on like proud parents, happy that they could make the holiday special for the little girl whose past they know nothing about.

2D glances at the time on his phone and swallows a marshmallow-laden gulp of hot chocolate.

"I'm gonna head to the carpark now," he informs.

Russel raises a skeptical brow. "You sure, man? If he wants to be a Scrooge, let him. Wouldn't you rather celebrate with us?"

2D waves his friend off with a smile and stands, unfolding his long, lanky legs to stride across the room. "I'll just be gone a bit. Gotta phone my parents later anyway. You know where to find me if ya need me. And 'ey, Noods, go easy on those gummy worms; you'll give yourself a belly ache!"

Noodle only giggles in response as he heads out of the living room.

2D enters the chill of the carpark, then the stuffy heat of the Winnebago. He doesn't bother with knocking, instead heading straight inside. He knows it isn't locked. Approaching the bed, he finds Murdoc curled up in a ball, his back to the entrance.

"Just me," he murmurs, and when that doesn't earn him a response, he shrugs and lifts the covers, crawling into bed with the bassist and lying beside him. Murdoc still shows no signs of acknowledging him, so he gradually shifts until he's spooning the smaller man, his chest pressed to Murdoc's back, his long arms wrapping around in a gentle embrace that Murdoc could break if he really wanted to.

"I really hope you didn't bring anything, D."

His voice is a little deeper than usual, low and listless.

"I didn't. Like you said: no presents or any of that. I just wanted to spend a little time with you. All you have to do is let me lie here with you."

"Yeah, all right."

"And maybe next year, you'll sit up with me. And the year after that we can have hot chocolate together. And maybe one day we can celebrate with Russ and Noods."

For a while, 2D's hopeful suggestion doesn't receive a response, and he frowns although Murdoc can't see it. He hopes he hasn't pushed any boundaries by suggesting such a thing or made Murdoc angry.

"Um. Do you. Rrreally, uh…plan on being here years into the future?"

"With you?" the singer asks for clarification. "Of course. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, Muds." To accentuate his point, he places a soft kiss to the back of the bassist's neck. "I wouldn't want to. This is enough for me."

They lie like that, breathing together, feeling their body heat mingle and meditating on their own thoughts. Eventually, Murdoc breaks the silence.

"The clouds ever clear up this morning?"

"Hm? No, sky darkened a bit. 'S'snowin', now."

"It's snowing?"

"Yeah, not a lot. Just a little bit."

"Oh."

Somewhere in the course of the conversation, Murdoc's hand has found 2D's under the covers; he's interlaced their fingers, his thumb idly stroking the singer's smooth skin.

"Hey, D."

"Yeah."

"Can we go have a look?"

2D flexes his fingers very slightly, a reassuring squeeze that things are okay.

"Sure."


End file.
